


the devil does what you ask of him

by supernutellastuff



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Natasha-centric, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Red Room, Repressed Memories, Wakanda, soviet spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7609006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernutellastuff/pseuds/supernutellastuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stays up late reading a book, a magazine, a newspaper, whatever she can get her hands on. Until the words on the pages blur, till her eyes burn, she endlessly procrastinates going to bed. Because in that period between awake and sleep, when her eyes are still shut, she is terrified of her thoughts.</p><p>--<br/>Post CACW Natasha goes on the run, though she can never run far from thoughts of a certain metal-armed assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She’s in Mumbai when Steve tries to contact her.

_I’ve tried calling your number, but you’ve probably disposed of your phone. I’m not even sure if you’ve kept this one. For all I know, this message will never reach you. Oh well._

She doesn’t reply. She figures it’s safer for everyone if Steve thinks he didn’t get ahold of the burner phone she’s currently carrying. That his texts haven’t reached her.

And maybe there’s something comforting about her silence, maybe it’s freeing to get those words out into the void, because Steve continues sending messages.

**Tuesday 14:56 hrs**

_Remember that time we tried lifting the hammer? That seemingly innocuous piece of metal that determines your entire worth? There was a moment when I thought I would lift it, that I would be deemed worthy. I think about that moment a lot._

**Tuesday 22:45 hrs**

_Do you think Thor knows what happened?_

**Wednesday 11:20 hrs**

_I’m reading this book by Thomas Kuhn. He talks about paradigm shifts that upend everything you ever thought you knew. How many paradigm shifts do you think happen in a man’s lifetime?_

**Thursday 02:30 hrs**

_And to think that a few months ago my biggest worry was rising real estate prices._

Of course, there’s nothing incriminating in his messages. Nothing about where he is, who he’s with. No word on a recent prison break she saw on the news.

She receives the last one on Sunday, very early in the morning.

 

_Thank you._

_For letting us do what we had to._

.

.

Natasha tries to treat it as a vacation.

She really does.

She has enough money sequestered away and a fair network of safe houses not many know of. It’s all fine during the day. She visits museums and art galleries. She takes a ferry to see a Buddhist monastery carved out of a mountain. She tries the spicy street food, picks out pretty ethnic jewellery. She takes pictures of the colonial architecture. She manages to catch a Bollywood film shoot in a park, all bright colours and loud songs. She dyes her hair black.

It’s the nights that are a problem.

The first night, she doesn’t sleep at all, just watches TV. Pretty soon, she grows tired of mindlessly flicking through channels so she raids the bookstores nearby. She finds a tattered copy of _The Age of Innocence_ in a secondhand book stall and takes it to bed.

 _Each time you happen to me all over again_ , she reads, lids heavy with sleep.

A routine is formed. She stays out the entire day, exploring a new part of the city. In the evening, she returns to her modestly priced hotel and makes herself a cup of instant soup. Then she stays up reading a book, a magazine, a newspaper, whatever she can get her hands on. Reading until the words on the pages blur, till her eyes burn, she endlessly procrastinates going to bed. She reads until she can’t anymore, till she knows sleep will take over instantaneously.

Because in that period between awake and sleep, when her eyes are still shut, she is terrified of her thoughts.

.

.

It was important to have an imagination in the Red Room.

She’d heard of the torturous training baller dancers had to undergo. So she imagined herself as a ballerina, weaving and dancing with faceless partners. Broken fingers and bleeding toes were all a part of the package if she was going to be performing on the stage, silhouetted by colourful lights.

It was important to have an imagination in the Red Room because there was only silence.

She needed something to fill that silence. So she imagined. Yelena had a low, sultry voice. Katya had a thin, reedy voice. Nadia’s voice was pleasant, patient.

And when she walked into the weapons room, she was accompanied by a swell of trumpets. The day she made her first kill, there were screeching violins in the background. The rich sounds of Tchaikovsky drowned the groans and the whimpers of her fellow trainees.

Her life was a movie and she had her own personal soundtrack.

.

.

She’s sitting by the sea when her phone buzzes. Despite herself, she picks it up. The sun is about to set and the yellow streetlights slowly flicker along the curve of the bay. Queen’s Necklace, it’s called. A string of pearls choking an elegant neck.

“Natasha?”

“Sam?”

“Thank god. Steve told me it was a long shot but I had to try-”

“Does he know?”

“Not unless you want me to tell him.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, I doubt he’d- I mean he’s holed up all the time with T’Challa in this room they call the war council-”

A pause.

“I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that.”

“Sam, it’s not that difficult to figure out where you guys are. How’s- how’s Clint?”

“He’s fine. Went back to his family, they’re lying low. So did Scott.”

“Wanda?”

“Wanda’s here with us. She’s a little- well, there are good doctors here.”

Natasha sighs. A light drizzle builds up and she sees couples sitting around her shake and unfurl big umbrellas. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, they huddle behind the umbrellas, faces turned towards each other. In a city teeming with millions, this is the only space they have. An expression of private moments on a very public promenade.

There’s something in his voice she can’t quite pinpoint.

“Sam, what’s wrong?”

“Bucky- he just went back under ice. After all that happened, everything we did- and Steve, Steve just _let_ him, Natasha.”

“Why?”

“He said he couldn’t trust his own mind. So he went back to sleep. _Just like that_.”

She realises that he’s angry. She also realises she’s gripping the phone too tightly.

“Sam, I have to go.”

“Thought so. Don’t call on this number again?”

“Don’t call on this number again.”

“Stay safe, Natasha.”

The phone warms her hand for only a second before it’s violently flung away. She watches it break into pieces on the rocks below, the thundering of the waves like a song in the background.

.

.

The rain does good to the city, giving it a fresh lick of paint. But like all changes, she can only see it above her; the clear sky, a gleaming skyscraper, and far away, the wisp of a rainbow.

On the ground level, it’s the squelch of her feet on the potholed road, a car splashing brown water on her jeans.

She wonders what he’s dreaming of.

 

_“You really don’t do well in the cold,” she says. An offhand comment. “Considering your name.”_

_His mouth quirks but his gaze is still troubled._

_“It hurts my arm.” A half-truth._

_Then: “It makes my mind go blank. And then there are the dreams. Dreams of frost. And glass.”_

_They both know what he’s talking about. She didn’t before. But now it seems the rumours have been confirmed._

_She twists to face him and his fingers reach out to touch her hair._

_“What do you dream of now?”_

_“Fire.”_

 

The crowd presses into her and she becomes a part of it easily. A purposeful walk, hunched shoulders and a scarf wound over her face and soon she’s a faceless part of the throng, on her way to a destination with a visible urgency that’s mobilising the entire crowd. It’s as effortless as a pebble smoothly sinking in water.

As simple as waking up in the middle of the night, weary with a dream half-remembered, eyes shutting of their own accord, and in the next moment, going back to sleep.

_Just like that._


	2. Chapter 2

_is this how it works?_

_in this room_

_the hours of love_

_still make shadows._

_\- For Jane,_ Charles Bukowski

 

Paris was picturesque in its disrepair.

The narrow cobblestoned streets, impractical to navigate. The cracked flowerpots hanging over every balcony the eye could see. The overflowing gutters when it rained.

She meets Sophie while they’re both sipping café au lait standing up at the counter because there’s no free table in the tiny café.

Sophie buys her story of a solo trip across Europe after a bad breakup. Natasha tells her that she’s staying in a hostel in the heart of the city.

“Your French is very good,” notes Sophie. “For an American.”

Natasha shrugs. “I took lessons.”

Sophie smiles. “You have to come to dinner with me and my friends,” she insists. “It’s very casual. Just a couple of people from the university.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’s no trouble. We love meeting new people.”

Natasha thinks of the entire evening that lies ahead of her. The DVDs in the furnished safe house a few streets over. A tiny bakery she’d been meaning to buy bread from.

She looks again at Sophie’s open, friendly face. Her red windswept hair. Slightly crooked teeth.

“Well, in that case, I’d love to come.”

Later, as they’re smoking under a streetlamp, she asks, “Why did you two fall apart?”

Natasha exhales and watches the ring of smoke rise upwards.

“He wasn’t the same man anymore.”

.

.

Sophie takes her to a restaurant known for its seafood. Her friends are already waiting. Natasha assesses them quickly, sharp eyes taking in their hands and clothes and the way they smile. She doesn’t pick up anything odd. Nothing to suggest something’s not what it seems. She feels like she can relax, though she only pretends to sip her wine.

They’re all PhD students, like Sophie, working on theses no one would ever read. But they’re all warm and welcoming and accept her as an old friend. As if she’s sat here before, at this table groaning with dishes, exchanging inside jokes with ease.

Trust, she thinks. People trust too easily.

She notices things. Things these group of friends are too myopic to notice. Pierre keeps trying to flirt with her, even though Sophie had mentioned he had a girlfriend. Tina’s jealous of Sophie’s academic achievements; she purses her lips whenever they discuss Sophie’s highly-commended dissertation on post-structuralism and Jane Eyre. Mitch and Jean are very much in love, though they seem to be hiding something from the rest.

Pierre touches her arm. “Eve, till when are you in Paris?”

“Leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh,” says Sophie, disappointed. “I was going to show you around.”

Natasha smiles. “You’ve only got me for tonight, I’m afraid.”

The night passes in a blur of good food and conversation. There’s a worrying moment when the topic swings to the Avengers Civil War, as the media has been calling it, and Jean asks for her opinion-

“I don’t know, it seems like a big deal over nothing.”

-and they swiftly move on to the recent immigrant crisis. Really, she can never get over how blind people can be. Her disguise is rudimentary. Her hair’s a different colour, cut with a fringe. She’s wearing contacts, and glasses with black frames.

In reality, she’s playing with expectations. Sophie and Pierre and Mitch and Jean and Tina, none of them would ever expect to be sharing dinner with the Black Widow. So they see what they want to see.

.

.

They leave, one by one. Soon, it’s just her and Sophie standing outside in the clear night.

Sophie sways slightly. “I think I had too much to drink.”

“The wine was very good.”

“You barely had any, Eve. I noticed.”

Interesting. Sophie’s a better observer than she’d given her credit for.

She walks towards Natasha and places a hand on her shoulder. With the other hand she touches the top of her head, where her roots are showing.

“Look, hair twins,” she laughs.

And then she kisses her. Their bodies bump into each other as the kiss deepens, and Sophie sighs into her mouth. She runs her palms across Natasha back, briefly slipping underneath the hem of her blouse.

She pulls away, breathing hard, and blinks.

“Sorry, was that, how do you say it, too much too soon?”

“Not at all,” replies Natasha, grinning, winding her fingers in her hair and pulling her closer.

.

.

 Sophie’s apartment is on the sixth floor of a building not far from the restaurant. If she tilts her head so, Natasha can just about make out the Eiffel Tower from the window.

And lying besides a snoring Sophie, she stares at the ceiling in the dark and thinks of the first time she was in Paris.

_Paris is picturesque in its sheer beauty._

_The women in the latest fashions, hurrying along narrow cobblestoned streets. The apartments with wrought-iron balconies, stacked one on top of the other. The slight drizzle that blurs the cityscape, making the Eiffel Tower look like an Impressionist painting._

_She gets a good look at the city while she’s trailing the target. A former diplomat, he’s slow and makes no effort to be discreet. She’s just a tourist, wandering about aimlessly. Stopping at the Marche de Fluer to smell the roses. Feeding sparrows outside the Notre Dame._

_The Soldier is waiting for her at the safehouse. She fills him in on the target’s daily routine and watches as he methodically cleans his guns, never once meeting her eye._

_The next day, they’re sitting at an outdoor café, looking like any other couple enjoying the sun. The target stops briefly to buy some pastries, as they knew he would, and the Soldier lazily signals for the bill. They stroll out, hand-in-hand, behind the target._

_And before he knows it, he’s cornered in an alley, a deadend she had marked out before for this very purpose._

_“The Red Room sends its regards,” she says. She didn’t have to but she likes the way it sounds._

_After it’s done, she walks out to the mouth of the alley where the Soldier is keeping a lookout. His back is slouched against the brick wall, an unlit cigarette casually propped in his mouth. He looks like a movie star from those black and white American films they show her._

_He turns to take note of the work she’s done. It’s a neat death, no blood, just a simple matter of taking a garrotte to his throat. To be honest, he hadn’t put up any fight._

_The Soldier nods in approval and singlehandedly heaves the body over into a dumpster._

_Back on the street, he whispers into her ear: Good job._

_She almost misses the small smile on his face._

_It’s her first mission._

.

.

There are books everywhere. Standing on the shelves, sliding off tables, stacked on chairs. Tucked in between the pages of _A Lover’s Discourse_ , Barthes’ clinical deconstruction of love, she finds a book of poems. Of all people, Bukowski.

Smiling, she takes the book to an empty chair by the window where there’s enough light to read.

_I kneel in the nights_

_before tigers_

_that will not let me be._

Bukowski, she muses. The ultimate poet. He spent most of his life drowning in love, debt and alcohol. People thought there was something romantic about his life; sitting at a corner of a bar, fingers stained with ink, pining over a long-dead love.  _Love is for children,_ the Madame had sneered,  _and the Red Room does not produce children._ The Black Widow graduated summa cum laude a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like a century, sometimes it feels like yesterday.

_what you were_

_will not happen again._

There was a moment at the airport when she wanted to say something. Anything. A word of warning. A cautious “good luck”. Or even a smiling “your welcome” to their unsaid thanks. She wanted to shake him by the shoulders and yell _why didn’t you recognise me?_

But that day hadn’t been about her. It hadn’t been about the Black Widow and her slowly-returning memories, freed from years of intentional and unintentional repression. It hadn’t been about a recurring ghost in her dreams, so different and yet so similar to the man who stood in front of her with Steve, the Black Panther stalking them like a predator from behind.

And then, after Tony told her that Ross was coming after her, she’d taken the first flight out to India. It was the exact sort of place she was looking for. Someplace no one would expect her to go. Someplace hot and tropical. No frost, no cold.

_the tigers have found me_

_and I do not care._

.

.

The Y-shaped headquarters of UNESCO stand gleaming above her as she makes her way to the Place de Fontenoy. The three-pointed star, it’s called, for the three buildings that complete the structure.

She wonders if Sophie has found her note yet. She’d thanked her for the meal and the night, adding that she was going to be on her way to Austria now. She couldn’t resist signing Eve in red.

Her strides towards the security barrier are confident and unwavering, auburn curls bouncing on her shoulders, though the wig itches her scalp.

The guard looks at the ID, glances up at her face, and waves her through.

She wonders if Sophie has noticed her missing ID yet. Maybe not until tomorrow. As a part-time intern, she isn’t expected to be present today at the closed-doors meeting. Natasha reminds herself to drop it off at the Lost and Found before she leaves.

She waits outside the office that’s been assigned to him, files in her hands, pen clicking in and out. The offices around her are silent, though she’d noticed quiet activity on the lower floors. She checks her watch. The meeting should have ended by now.

As if on cue, he arrives with his retinue and sweeps past her, barely giving her a glance. She waits until the aides and the assistants leave, until it’s just him inside the office and the two bodyguards outside.

She walks up to the door and the woman looks at her questioningly.

“I- I just need some signatures,” she stammers, averting her eyes.

They stare at her blankly, and Natasha feels their hard gaze sweeping her body, checking for hidden weapons. Wordlessly, the woman opens the door and ushers her inside.

The door shuts behind her and she notices that the woman had not left her side. Crap, she thinks, that wasn’t the plan. _Oh well._

“I was under the impression that all the formalities had been completed.”

“Not all,” she replies and reaches up to deactivate the photostatic veil over her face.

If the King of Wakanda is surprised to see her, he hides it well.

“Agent Romanoff,” he greets mildly.

“I think we can drop the agent now, Your Highness.” She glances at the Dora Milaje glaring at her. There are only a few things that the Black Widow fears, and the elite Wakandan team of bodyguards is one of them.

T’Challa notices this and smiles. “You can leave us now, Okoye.”

Okoye complies, but not before shooting her a look that promises unending torture if Natasha so much as harms a hair on the King’s head. _Noted._

He’d been standing by the window when they’d entered, but now he crosses to his desk and sits. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Miss Romanoff?”

He doesn’t trust her. Beneath the courteous smile lies steel.

“I’m not here to apologise for that day.”

“I wouldn’t presume so.”

There’s brief silence as he pours himself a glass of water.

“Don’t you want to know why I did it?”

“I understand you now. I was a man consumed by revenge. Killing solves nothing, it only perpetuates the cycle.” 

“I wouldn’t have expected you to leave Wakanda so soon.”

“Why, Miss Romanoff, what do you think is keeping me back?” T’Challa smiles. “There is no cause for worry. Your friends are quite safe.”

“Oh, I have no doubt they are safe in _your_ hands.”

He doesn’t miss the emphasis. “I did state that I now find vengeance a futile effort.”

“There are worse things than death.”

“I don’t mean to hold them as pawns. Captain Rogers and his companions are esteemed guests, free to go wherever they wish. Of course, they choose to remain within the borders but considering the remarkable bounty dangling over their heads, it’s a wise move.”  T’Challa takes a sip. “There’s an equally formidable manhunt out for the Black Widow.”

“I’m used to it. Steve is a soldier, not a spy.”

T’Challa leans back in his chair. “Why are you really here?”

“There’s been some chatter from your part of the world. I had to confirm. I had to- I had to know in what capacity they were staying in Wakanda.” Her fists tighten involuntarily, as if she could have really made a difference if T’Challa had been holding them hostage.

“Is that all?”

“I may have a message.”

T’Challa looks at her for a long time then finally allows her to sit. Natasha places the dummy files between them.

“They invited me here soon after the break-in at the Raft, you know. Now that Wakanda has a new ruler, they said, they were hopeful of establishing new ties. Of a purely cultural significance, they said. Wakanda has always been closed off to the rest of the world. They would like to send a culture mission to my country, to participate in an exchange that would help us both. All in the service of a new, globalised world.”

He traces the rim of his glass, frowning briefly.

“I’m no fool, of course. They suspect me. But they cannot confront me directly, not with the full might of Wakanda behind me. However a team of emissaries from UNESCO? What objections could I possibly have? After all, I’m a man who respects culture and history, according to them.”

“What do you need of me?”

And the King smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some plotty stuff this time. Do let me know what you think! I'm also contemplating a Bucky POV.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the Bucky POV! Although I cheated a bit. It'll be clearer once you read, but this isn't set in the present. Enjoy!

_How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot_

_The world forgetting, by the world forgot_

_Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind_

_Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d._

\- Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard.

 

 

They’re standing on a dark and silent rooftop, shoulders hunched over rifle scopes.

“Take a deep breath. Let your mind go empty,” he tells her. “Pulling the trigger should be as easy as exhaling.”

He watches as she lines up the target. Her hair hangs around her face, and he can make out the colour even on this moonless night. _Fire_.

“That’s it,” he says once her aim is perfect. “Let it go.”

“Let it go,” she echoes.

She takes a breath. He’s intensely aware of her every little movement, graceful and precise. Her feet shuffling on the concrete as she widens her stance. Chest rising up and down as she breathes in again. Fingers tightening on the trigger.

She still doesn’t take the shot.

“We don’t have all night, you know,” he teases, a little concerned.

“Let it go,” she says again. “Let me go.”

“What?”

And her face, when she looks up, is utterly blank.

“Let me go, James.”

He screams.

.

.

Bright lights. Clinking glasses. Soft music.

He’s wearing a dark suit that hides his arm and blends in with the surroundings. She’s wearing a sparkling red dress that catches every eye in the vicinity.

He watches her flirt with the mark. Light touches and suggestive glances. The man leans in to whisper something and she gives a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Sergei? Don’t mind him, Daddy hired him to keep me safe. Don't worry, he's not as menacing as he looks.” And she turns around to place a warm hand on his arm. “Aren’t you, Sergei?”

He nods curtly and resumes staring at nothing in particular.

“Not much of a talker, is he?” leers the minister who’s about to die soon.

“He doesn’t need to be. Come, you were about to show me the painting?”

He follows at a distance, shrouded in the shadows. If the man notices, he doesn’t say anything. He’s too distracted by the beautiful woman by his side. And then by the knife to his throat.

She’s going through the pockets of the dead man when she lets out a gasp and tilts her head to the side. “Did you hear that?”

He’s instantly on alert. “Hear what?”

She points towards the rapidly darkening hallway. “Someone’s coming.”

His senses are far better than most, but even he fails to notice anything. The corridor is absolutely dark, as if all the light has been sucked out.

She clutches his arm. “They’re coming for me, James.”

And when he turns to look at her, she’s already gone.

.

.

She’s dancing with the rest on the stage. The lights are off but she shines brightly.

“Redheads stand out in a crowd,” she says, matter-of-fact.

“ _You_ stand out in a crowd.”

She’s up there on the stage, and she’s right here next to him. She watches him watch her.

“This is wrong,” he murmurs as she executes a perfect pirouette. “You never did ballet.”

Her hand reaches out to intertwine with his metal fingers. “You’re dreaming, James.”

“That makes more sense.”

“No.” And suddenly her fingers are tight enough to dent metal. “They’re taking away your dreams too.”

His mind is sluggish, still transfixed on the ballerinas.

“Fight! Don’t let them-”

The stage lights flare up, and he’s blinded. When he opens his eyes again, the auditorium is empty.

.

.

He finds himself lying in bed next to her. He feels warm and safe. Their clothes are strewn all across the hotel room. There’s a broken lamp on the floor.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, snuggling in closer. “I could stay here forever."

He finds his eyes drifting close. _No. No, wait-_

“Wake up!” He sits bolt upright. “No, wake up! We need to leave, they’re coming!”

“Extraction’s not due for another three hours,” she mutters drowsily. “Come back under the sheets.”

He should. She’s right. He sinks back into the bed, happy. Comfortable. _No, don’t-_

Suddenly she gives a scream. “James, help me!”

Invisible hands are all over her. They’re dragging her away. He tries to help her, to bring her back, but he can’t- he doesn’t- he can’t move.

She’s thrashing and struggling and the sheets are binding him and tears are streaming down his face and he knows he’s lost when his hands go through her body.

All he can do is watch her being dragged into the deep, dark abyss.

.

.

She twists to face him and his fingers reach out to touch her hair.

“What do you dream of now?”

There’s something he has to tell her. Something urgent. But he can’t- he doesn’t- he can’t explain. It’s like sand slipping through his fingers. It’s like trying to remember something you never knew. It’s like-

“They’re erasing you!” he yells.

"What are you talking about?"

“They’re erasing you from my mind.” His voice cracks.

She glances at him, afraid, and drops her gun on the ground. “What do we do?”

“I- I don’t know.” The initial triumph at finally remembering is fading. “I don’t know how to save you.” He looks around at the snow-covered clearing they’re standing in. The trees sway ominously in the wind. Any minute now he’s going to lose this, lose her.

“Okay.” She takes a breath, rolls her shoulders back. And when she looks up, the expression on her face is fierce. “They want to erase me? Let them try.” 

He wants to kiss her.

“Take me to another memory, somewhere they won’t look for me. Something deep and buried.”

“Okay, alright, I’ll-”

“No, don’t say it loud. They might hear.” She steps forward, a ghost of a smile on her face. “Let’s play hide and seek.”

.

.

They’re walking down a painfully familiar street.

“I don’t know how we came here. I don’t remember this-”

“Don’t you see, Mr. American, this is your old life. This is who you were before.” She smiles brightly. “I like him.”

He looks down. He’s wearing a uniform. He’s a soldier. Before he can figure out how the hell he ended up here, they round a corner. And there, at the end of the alley, near a dumpster, he sees a man beating the hell out of a scrawny kid.

His body springs into action. In the blink of an eye he’s hauled the man off. “Hey, pick on someone your own size!” The words feel natural in his mouth.

A punch, a kick, it's like he's moving on pure instinct. And when he’s sent the bully running, he turns to look at the blonde kid and his breath catches. This isn’t just a kid- he’s- he _knows_ him.

“Bucky?” he says. His nose is bleeding.

There’s a strange pause that shouldn’t be there. He feels a hand on his back. “What is happening?” she asks. “Who is this?”

 _I don’t know_ , his mind screams as it’s been torn into two.

“No, no, no I shouldn’t have come here. I made a huge mistake-” They both stare at him like he’s gone mad, and maybe he has because all he wants to do is howl and claw his eyes out.

“James. I think we were too late.” He turns to her, and her edges seem blurry. The darkness is slowly creeping on her.

“No, we have to fight! Stay with me, please-”

“Buck, what’s going on?” His blonde hair is matted with blood and- no it’s not blood. The darkness is eating him too.

He’s numb with pain and shock and only has time to yell _what have I done_ before the memory is wrenched away from him forever.

.

.

_“Sir, the Asset is muttering something. There’s movement behind his eyes. This shouldn’t be possible but-”_

_“What is he saying?”_

_“He’s calling out someone’s name. Steve?”_

_“Pump him with more sedatives.”_

_“This could be dangerous. Risk of permanent damage if we continue with the procedure.”_

_“Keep going.”_

.

.

Paris is nowhere near as picturesque as her.

“We don’t have long, you know,” he whispers in her ear as they stroll down the cobbled streets. “This is your first mission. We’re almost at the end.”

She sighs and tucks her arm in his. “It’s so nice pretending to be tourists. Do you think he suspects us?”

He takes a moment to look at the man they’re following. “Not at all. He’s grown foolish with age. Trustful.”

“Must be such an easy life, no? Never having to look over your shoulders. And stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me like you’re trying to memorise my face. You know it’s not going to make a difference.”

“I know.” He’s already forgotten what happened when he took her to his old life, but he can still feel the loss. It feels like a gaping void on his side. Like a missing limb.

“What do you think they’ll do with me?”

“Probably the same.”

They always knew there would be no happy endings. That there would be no escaping retribution. And he doesn’t regret a single moment. He’s fought, and he’ll keep fighting till the end.

“Promise me something, James.”

“Anything.”

“The next time we meet, if we meet, will you at least _try_ and recognise me?”

He kisses her hard. She tastes of salt and smoke, and for a moment there’s nothing but her as the city collapses around them. She looks at him when they break away, eyes bright with unshed tears, fierce and determined, and he prays wildly, fervently to a god that isn’t there.

They watch, hand-in-hand, as the Eiffel Tower crumbles into dust.

.

.

.

.

_"Soldat. Welcome back."_

_“Ready to comply.”_

_“Good. Now tell me, who is Natalia Alianovna Romanov?”_

_He stares with unseeing eyes._

_“No one.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. How was it? Be brutal.  
> This chapter was obviously inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind aka my favourite movie ever.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been so long!   
> Thank you for all the feedback. I'll be replying to the comments right after I finish posting.  
> Enjoy :)

_I have shed my skin_

_So many times_

_This graveyard must be full_

_Of all the people I used to be._

\- David Jones

 

She’s a ditzy American, hair freshly dyed a platinum blonde, when she steps off the train at Bergen. It had been a spectacular journey through fjords, tunnels, snow-fed waterfalls, and tall, tall fir trees. The rendezvous is not due for a couple of hours so she takes a stroll through the fish market overlooking the dock. She buys fresh Norwegian salmon, tries a reindeer sausage (it’s too salty for her taste), and flirts with a vendor who greets tourists from around the world in their own native language.

It would be easy not to make it for the appointment, she thinks as she eats her lunch in front of the brightly painted wooden buildings. There was a time long ago, before SHIELD collapsed, when Natasha had made peace with her past. It had been a long, arduous process and sometimes the only thing that had kept her going had been Clint’s support. It was bad enough that recently resurfaced memories had shown her that the history she had so reluctantly confronted was just the tip of the iceberg. Did she really want to open another can of worms? She had scrubbed the red on her ledger until her hands turned raw, and now it turned out there were chapters still dripping with blood, staining her fingers.

In the end, however, she takes the funicular to Mount Fløien and waits. The Black Widow might be on the run from several governmental organisations but she was not a coward.

.

.

Even now, Yelena Belova is capable of turning heads. Natasha looks at her and sees what could have been. She sees herself.

Yelena smoothens her elegant skirt and sits carefully on the bench overlooking the city below. Natasha, who had been loitering nearby, comes to stand beside her. Yelena looks up from her hands crossed on her lap and purses her lips.

“Natalia.” It’s her hands that give away her age.

Natasha occupies the vacant space in silence. The mountaintop, normally crawling with tourists, is relatively empty due to expected fog. Although a light mist hangs in the air, visibility is more than enough for her.

Yelena points a manicured finger towards a building in the distance. “The Opera House. Seems like quite an ugly construction from the street. But it’s only from the top you see what it’s meant to be. A piano.” A pause. “Sometimes all you need is a bird’s eye view.”

For all intents and purposes, the Red Room’s oldest graduate had retired to a charming city in Norway to live the rest of her life in peace. Only a handful knew that Yelena Belova had magnificently adapted to the new world by establishing herself as one of the top dealers in a currency more valuable than anything: knowledge.

As far as possible, Natasha had kept herself away from Yelena’s web. She had been her fiercest competitor in the Red Room, their encounters a mix of mutual respect and hostility. When Natasha defected to SHIELD, Yelena had been quick to approach her, offering a chance for her to play the double agent. In the midst of finding her feet in a new world, Natasha had been sorely tempted. Lies and intrigue was what the Black Widow excelled in. The relative transparency of SHIELD had made her feel vulnerable.

But Natasha had made her choice. Yelena wisely backed off, and perhaps this is what made SHIELD finally trust their new Russian agent. Natasha still approached her whenever she needed crucial intelligence for SHIELD or Avengers-related matters because Yelena was simply the best, but any trade between them was conducted in proxy.

“It’s been a long, long time,” she says, echoing Natasha’s thoughts. The slight rasp in her voice is more prominent than before.

“Please, you were never the sentimental type.”

“I find that a prolonged life makes for a very lonely one. I’m sure you know that by now.” A smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Although, catching up with old friends once in a while does help.”

“We were never friends.”

“Oh, I agree. But I’m not talking about myself, am I?” She fetches a compact mirror from her patent leather bag and studies her flawlessly-applied makeup. “I hear he goes by Bucky now.”

Natasha swallows. “Did you know? Earlier- during- ?”

Yelena snaps the mirror shut and stows it away. “The Winter Soldier and his Red Room lover,” she muses. “I always thought they were a cautionary tale for us. Nothing more than legend. Imagine my surprise when I found out not only was it a girl who had trained by my side every day, but a girl who had no idea how old she really was.” She pauses to cough into a tissue.

“I hope you realise that it was never a fair match between us. I might have been the oldest in the Red Room, but you had more experience. Decades of it.” Yelena glances at her with an edge of envy in her blue eyes.

“Decades that I still don’t remember completely,” she replies, a crack slipping into her voice. The meeting’s not going as planned. Natasha is more flustered than she expected to be. Yelena recognises this, and a smirk spreads across her face at the shift in power.

Natasha notices and realises that she doesn’t care.

“Tell me. Tell me everything. What did they do to me.”

In answer, Yelena reaches up to her hair and pulls out a glittering clip, placing it in Natasha’s hands. She turns it over to see a microchip attached to the base. When she looks up, Yelena has already slipped away, leaving her sitting on the bench as the fog creeps over to the valley like a cat, slowly and silently.

.

.

 _You will break them_ , she had cried.

 _Only the breakable ones_ , they had said. _You are made of marble_.

But there was a time when she wasn’t. There was a time when she had broken.

The memories haunt her sleep again. Some old, some new, all painful. There’s one that wakes her up with a yell, heart hammering in her chest, the gun shaking as she points it at the door.

_She’s kicking and biting and yelling as they drag her away._

_She’s thrashing and cursing as they tie her to the chair._

_She’s screaming as shocks reverberate through her body, and her screams mingle with another’s, someone whose voice she knows as intimately as her own, someone-_

_Then, there’s silence._

.

.

She’s strolling across the old town when she notices someone following her. She checks his reflection in a shop window. Bland face, generic suit. Must be a government agent.

 _About damn time_ , she thinks.

She stops in front of an old house, admiring its ivy-covered walls. She sighs pleasantly and takes an obligatory picture. The suit halts and awkwardly leans against a lamppost. Natasha rolls her eyes.

Playing the tourist further, she wanders into a particularly narrow cobblestoned alley. When she hears his footsteps behind her, she smiles.

Not long after, when she’s got him in a chokehold, she says, “And here I thought you guys had forgotten about me. Been so long, and they send only one agent? Frankly, I’m insulted.”

He grins at her through the blood streaming from his nose. “You’re dead, Widow.”

Natasha stills.

There's a faint smell of bitter almonds in the air. She springs into action too late. Her assailant is already dead.

No, this was not a government spy. They don’t usually kill themselves after getting caught by a lone, (relatively) unarmed target. This was someone with more of a…personal interest. This was a warning.

She’s getting sloppy. She should have seen the cyanide pill. She should have noticed he was working alone. No government agent works without backup.

Natasha looks up at the windows but does not catch any movement. There are no convenient dumpsters or loose dirt to hide the body. Still angry with herself, she drags it roughly to the side and props it up against the wall. She cleans up the blood on his face and steps back. Head hanging low, arms crossed over his stomach, he looks like any other passed-out drunk.

It’s inferior work by any standard, and Natasha mentally berates herself for being so careless. And for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself imagine what the Winter Soldier would say. But there’s nothing.

.

.

She’s at the airport when she receives a call from T’Challa.

“Miss Romanoff. Don’t worry, this is a secure line.”

“I’d keep it brief, all the same.”

“Of course. I hope your little detour was successful?”

“More or less.”

The King wisely doesn’t press for details. “Time is running out, however, on the matter we discussed earlier. Are you ready?” The _you better be_ hangs unsaid.

“Of course I am. Have some faith, Your Majesty. I gave you my word,” she replies lightly.

T’Challa remains unimpressed. “And yet one hears reports of a certain incident in Bergen. I can’t help but wonder if the Black Widow is losing her touch.”

Natasha grits her teeth. “A highly unfortunate situation, but unavoidable. You told me that everything you’re doing now is to make up for all that your quest for revenge had undone. So believe me, Your Majesty, when I say that everything I’m doing now is to make up for _decades_ worth of wrong. Further,” she adds, sweeping a casual glance across the waiting room. “More time is being wasted doubting my word again.”

“True,” he replies, amused. “And so that you do not have any cause to doubt _me_ , let me assure you that I have not forgotten about the message you wished to convey to certain persons.”

She’d dreamt of him last night. This time it wasn’t a memory. It was the product of staying up too late reading Yelena’s file on the Winter Soldier.

 _You fought for me_ , she wanted to say. _I remember now. They were erasing me from you, you from me. You fought so hard, but it’s me who remembers now._

“I have some information,” she says instead. “An old friend gave me something that should be useful in understanding Barnes’ conditioning.”

“Something that would negate the need for him to be in the cryo-chamber?”

“Eventually.”

T’Challa makes a thoughtful noise. “Captain Rogers will be pleased.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“You have a peculiar sense of loyalty. But it’s strong, all the same,” he admits grudgingly.

“Just doing my bit to erase the red in my ledger,” she replies automatically.

“Hmm. I’m expecting you, Miss Romanoff. Don’t be late.”

The call ends with an abrupt click. As she gathers up her bags to join the passengers queuing for boarding, she thinks about Yelena.

She’d left her used tissue behind on the bench and Natasha had thought it was another hint, and perhaps it was, for when she gingerly unwrapped it, it was glistening with blood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments! Here's a Bucky POV for you :)

_I run from the story that is faster than me,_

_the words shatter and pant to outchase me._

_\- The Future is an Animal_ , Tina Chang.

 

It is exactly like waking up from a deep, satisfying sleep.

There is no bewildering sense of disorientation, no feeling of discomfort. He wakes up, surrounded by Wakandan technicians, and Steve.

He blinks. To be honest- _now isn’t that a good motto to live by_ –he’s a little reluctant to finally be conscious.

“How- how long?” he asks hoarsely. Looking around the room, there aren’t any clues he can find. Then again, Wakanda had been so far ahead than the rest of the world that it’s pointless dating his current situation. Steve swiftly shows him a calendar on a tablet and Bucky raises his eyebrows. He hadn’t been expecting to come out so soon.

“That was quick. I barely had time for a nap.”

“Ah, you’re up, Sergeant Barnes!” A young woman strides into the room, hair tied up in neon bands. She shrugs on a lab coat scribbled all over in ink and peers at a screen. “Your vitals seem fine.”

“Bucky,” he murmurs.

“Bucky, then.” She grins. _Shuri_ , he remembers. Teenage genius, sister to the King.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks, a familiar furrow on his forehead.

“Not bad, considering. Have they found a cure for-” He moves to tap his head with his left arm and stops. There’s an empty space where it shouldn’t be and he stares and stares at the void.

Shuri gives him a sympathetic glance. Bucky looks at Steve, bearded, dressed in dark, nondescript clothes, missing a certain shield, and almost immediately, the memory hits him like a searing brand.

Bucky, smiling weakly, says, “Hey ma, look, no hand,” and promptly faints.

.

.

He wakes up attached to a number of IVs and monitors and groans.

“And here I thought my day would start good.”

“Are you going to puke?” Shuri appears in his line of sight. “Because I have a strict policy against vomit in my lab.”

“I just need water.”

She hands him a glass, eyeing him beadily. Bucky gulps down the water and averts his face. The chrome white and sterility of the room is offset with pop-coloured graffiti and Wakandan art. The distinct bass of hip-hop fills the air. Shuri bobs her head to it as she disconnects all the medical paraphernalia from him with extreme care. “Sorry about that, needed to run some tests. A little disorientation is normal. Solid food and some rest, and soon you’ll be back to normal.”

_Normal._ He wants to laugh.

“Hey, Buck” comes a quiet voice from the doorway. Steve looks utterly exhausted, but when he smiles -a small, tentative smile- he looks like the scrappy kid Bucky once knew

Bucky grips the sheets with his hands- one flesh, one phantom. “Please tell me they’ve actually found a way to get all that stuff out of my head.”

“Natasha found something.”

Ice rushes into his veins at the name.

“Natasha?” His mouth tests the word.

“Yeah, Romanoff. She’s the one who helped us at the airport.”

“Oh.” He remembers her from that day: red-haired, deadly, steadfastly avoiding eye contact.

“T’Challa has asked me to start working on an arm for you. Vibranium with all the works.” Shuri claps her hands in excitement. “Ohhh, it’s going to be good!”

Bucky eyes the teenager with a degree of wariness. “Where is T’Challa? I’d like to…express my gratitude.”

“He’s out welcoming a delegation from UNESCO,” she says, typing rapidly on a touchpad. “Ugh, which reminds me I have to get ready for the party. Freaking corsets!”

Steve gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been going over the files Natasha sent.” A pause as he grimaces. “HYDRA rooted triggers deep into your brain. The only one who can neutralise them is you.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “The hell does that mean? I don’t even _know_ what those triggers are.”

Steve looks at Shuri and as if on cue, she puts down her pad. “There is a way we can get to the triggers,” she says earnestly. “Your dreams.”

Bucky laughs loudly. “Right.”

“I know, I had the same reaction,” says Steve. “But it could actually work. Dreams are where you let your guard down. You can confront your triggers in a safe space.”

 “Dreams are a suggestible place,” continues Shuri. “If we can plant the suggestion that your triggers are ineffective…” Why do they sound like they're rattling off a script? He wants to scream in frustration. 

“They’ll roll over and play dead? You know what all this sounds like? A big steaming pile of magical mumbo jumbo.”

Shuri’s eyes flash. “This is not magic, Sergeant Barnes, this is _science_.” She shoves the tablet’s screen into his face, which displays a 3D model of something complicated. “We’ve used this technology numerous times to cure our soldiers of PTSD.” She points angrily at a diagram projecting out of the display, almost touching his nose. “I upload your consciousness into _this_ matrix, which renders you into a dreamlike state. We go in _here_ and defuse the triggers.” She tosses the pad onto a chair. “Sergeant Barnes, you are here at the say so of my brother, who has kindly mobilised the brains and resources of Wakanda for your recovery. If you think I would recommend any procedure that is not the absolute best and a 100 percent safe, you would be insulting T’Challa. And _that_ ,” Shuri crosses her arms firmly. “I will not stand.”

Bucky stares at her, gobsmacked, and not without shame. Steve, wisely, stays silent, although he looks like he’d like nothing more than to get up and shake Shuri’s hand. _Shuri_. The passion and intelligence brimming in her reminds him of a certain Rebecca Barnes; pulling on his arm to show him stories she’d written; yelling at the next-door kid for hurting a cat. Without warning, tears spring to his eyes. Bucky ducks his head down, swallows. “I’m extremely sorry,” he says. “I did not mean to be condescending. This is all a little overwhelming, to be honest.”

The expression on Shuri’s face melts. “I get it, old man.” She plops down on the chair and retrieves the touchpad from underneath her arse. “I probably lost you on _matrix_ , but trust me, this procedure is absolutely painless.”

“It’s not pain I’m worried about.”

“Well, yeah, which brings me to the other thing.” Shuri purses her lips. “This is sort of an immersive experience.”

Bucky does not like where this is going. “What does that mean?”

This time it’s Steve who replies. “You will be an active participant in this. You have to be. You’ll need to confront the triggers yourself.”

“See, ordinarily I would just zap the synapses myself,” says Shuri, making finger guns at him. “But this case is different. Your triggers are not merely neurological in nature, but _emotional_. Any remote intervention I undertake would be incomplete. We need _ze human touch_.” She cracks a smile. “I believe it would be a cathartic experience.”

“Buck, I get your reservations,” says Steve. “But Natasha’s files give us hope that something like this could actually work. This was the way they planted your triggers, you know.”

“Yeah, but they were a lot more barbaric. This is our best shot, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky.”

Shuri stands and tucks the touchscreen into her pocket. “Bucky. Look, at the end of the day, this is your choice. We will not proceed without your full consent. Just let us know by the end of the day.” She waves once and heads out of the room.

For better or for worse, he doesn’t remember his unmaking. His life before the fall is crystal clear in his mind, full HD like the kids today would say; his life after, foggy memories and half-remembered nightmares. When he thinks of a way out, he envisions an impersonal surgical strike into his head, of easily waking up from the anaesthesia as the man he once was. What they’re suggesting…of being faced with what he’s done and what was done to him…call him a coward, but Bucky doesn’t think he’ll survive it.

“The answer is no.”

“Bucky, please-”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’m thankful to T’Challa and Shuri but I refuse to waste any more of their time on me. I cannot trust my own mind, how can I expect to come out of this whole? Now can you please put me back in cryo?”

Steve flinches. “You don’t have to-”

“ _Have_ to? Of course I don’t have to! Do you think I fucking like being in cryo after all these decades? Do you think I like these thoughts of frost and glass and the cold? Do you think I like not being in control?!” His voice breaks. “But every minute I spend outside of it…. It’s just safer for you, for T’Challa, and Shuri, if I just go back on ice. _Please_ , Steve. Let me.”

A heavy silence falls. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose and reaches for water, doing his best to ignore the pained expression on his best friend’s face.

“Will you at least take some time to consider it?” murmurs Steve. “Just…take a walk or something?”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“I can show you around. _Please_ , Bucky, stay for a while.”

“Fine.”

.

.

He hasn’t seen anything like Wakanda before.

They’re not allowed to step out of the palace wing, but from what Bucky can see, a dark, lush forest surrounds them. Gleaming towers rise from the canopy like the skyscrapers of the future he and Steve used to gawk at in the expos. The balconies have thatched roofs that are hung with colourful bird feeders. The streets are alive with people talking, laughing, buying food off stalls. Children zoom by on hover-boards. In the morning light, Bucky can make out a statue of a black panther outside the palace, mouth open mid-snarl, eyes shining with the promise of danger. And in the distance, the thunder of waterfalls.

“How the hell have they kept this place hidden for so long?” asks Bucky as they pass another landscape of nature and technology so deftly entwined that he wonders why there was ever a separation in the first place. Their assigned sections are sparsely decorated- corridors of grey steel lit with dim lights- but the view from the huge glass windows more than makes up for it. Bucky suspects that the glass is such that while they can see outside, no one can look inside. “I don’t think even the Soviets knew what Wakanda really was, which is saying something.”

“Everyone looks at Wakanda and sees a third-world country,” answers Steve. “They’ve used that to their advantage. No outsider has ever been allowed inside. Until now.” His mouth twists.

“T’Challa knows what he’s doing. Don’t you dare blame yourself for that.”

Steve smiles. “I’m not. And anyway, _I_ would blame Zemo for everything.”

“That stupid plan of his,” mutters Bucky. His quiet life had gone to shit because of a plot that rested on too many _if_ s. “There was no way it should have worked.”

“It shouldn’t have but it did.” Steve sighs. “Because Zemo was dedicated and desperate and had nothing to lose; he’d lost his whole world already.”

“Another reason why I’m a walking, talking liability, Rogers. If an ordinary man like Zemo can so easily activate the Soldier-mode…”

“Buck-”

“Say, where’s Hawkguy?” he interrupts, tired of the argument. “Haven’t seen him around.”

“Sam’s in Scotland, with Wanda. The doctors cleared her, so she’s going to stay there on the low. Sam’s helping her settle in.” Steve carelessly checks his watch, as if he’s late for an appointment. “I have to meet him in London soon. Just because we’re not Avengers any more doesn’t mean we have to stop acting like one.” He gives Bucky a pointed look.

“Steve. I’m nowhere near ready to join you and Wilson on your secret missions. Half the world wants me dead, the other half wants to lock me up for life.”

“They cleared you of all the UN bomb charges.”

“I know, but-”

“Look. I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about sometime in the future, when things make sense. What do you say,” and Steve unleashes the puppy dog eyes. “You and me, kicking the shit out of the bad guys?”

He laughs, suddenly and unexpectedly nostalgic for the old days, when all he had to do was put on his uniform and beat up Nazis. “We’ll see, Rogers. But you should definitely go. I know you. You’re probably feeling cooped up here. You’re not happy unless you’re out on the frontlines.”

“It’s a job,” is Steve’s simple reply. “My job.”

“What’s this?”

Bucky’s eyes are drawn to an alcove that is nothing more than an enclosed balcony peering down to a great hall. A high-profile event seems to be in progress there. He comes to stand before the glass, gait a trifle lopsided; his body is yet to compensate for the loss of his arm. He gazes at the attendees, some dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos, some in traditional Wakandan attire, confident that he cannot be seen by anyone, and thinks of the times he’d been in a similar position; a rifle in his hands, trained at a well-dressed target, and an accomplice below, weaving her way through the crowd, swaying her hips…

He blinks. He thinks he saw someone-

No, that’s impossible-

He doesn’t know anyone-

But there’s something familiar with the way she carries herself. She turns- blonde hair, a stranger’s face- and Bucky feels oddly disappointed.

“The welcome party for the UNESCO delegates, it seems,” remarks Steve. “There’s T’Challa.”

T’Challa, looking nothing like the agile fighter who’d almost sunk his claws into Bucky, stands at a podium and smiles at the room. A bodyguard with a shaved head stands behind him, hands crossed in front of her, still as a statue. The jewellery that adorns her arms and neck reminds him of armour. It probably  _is_ armour. He spots Shuri lurking at the back of the hall, fidgeting in her two-piece tangerine outfit.

Steve raps the glass softly. “Soundproof.”

“Good. The speeches are beginning.”

His gaze is dragged again to the blonde woman, who’s now sitting at the bar.

“Hey, Steve. Do you see anyone you recognise?”

“Unlikely.” He gives the hall a sweeping glance all the same. “No, no one. Why, do you?”

He takes a moment to answer. “No.”

.

.

Later, they run their tests on Bucky. It seems pointless, since he's already made up his mind to go back on cryo. Nevertheless, he sits as patiently as he can, being poked and prodded by the labcoats. Shuri squeezes his shoulder as she leads him to the panel of psychologists for the next set of evaluations. They question him about his emotions and probe his thoughts; they want to know if he has any violent ones. They show him pictures of faces, trying to gauge his empathy levels. Bucky suspects some of them are past kills. They keep asking if he remembers Berlin.

“What was going through your mind as Helmut Zemo spoke the trigger words?”

“How hard would you say you tried to resist his commands?”

“Do you know the names of all the people who attempted to stop you?”

“How much in control were you when you fought them?”

And on and on they go. Shuri sends in a cold glass of juice for him, a smiley drawn in the condensation clinging to the surface. Steve stays on the other side of the soundproof glass, face impassive.

Relief comes after what seems like hours. Bucky excuses himself to the bathroom to splash water onto his face and stare at himself in the mirror like some tragic emo hero. Which he is _not_ , thank you very much.

What he is, though, is furthest from the man they think they know. _The Soldier and Bucky are two different people who happen to share the same body_ , is what everyone keeps telling him. _You are not to blame_ , is what they keep saying. The fact is, Bucky has been the Soldier so long he doesn’t know how to be anyone else. They’d stripped away his humanity until only the machine remained. Bucky Barnes isn’t Steve Rogers’ best friend any more. Bucky Barnes is a weapon.

All the same, when Tony Stark shot off the metal arm, he neutralised the weapon that had not only killed his parents, but was also responsible for the death of countless more. The arm was what had made the Winter Soldier so dangerous, and in one agonising move, Stark destroyed the best and worst part of Bucky.

_And here we are_. A pathetic one-armed man, fumbling with the faucet, in a country straight out of a comic book. Bucky would laugh if he weren’t afraid he’d sound like an absolute lunatic.

Well, back to the ol’ faithful ice machine now. A part of him is scared that the next time he’ll come out he’ll be less man, more ice. A true Winter Soldier, he muses. _Now wouldn’t that be neat?_

.

.

T’Challa visits him in his room not long after. Shuri, who’d been loitering about blasting indecipherable rap and explaining memes to Bucky, tries to sidle away discreetly. T’Challa sends her a teasing look. “You thought I wouldn’t notice you giving everyone the slip at the party?”

She widens her eyes in innocence. “I had to give Bucky emotional support, brother.”

“Anything to get out of official duty, eh? I can sympathise.”

“I would pity you, but it’s your fault for being born first.”

“Well, go on, get out. I have to talk to Sergeant Barnes.”

Shuri flashes her brother a mock-salute and walks out. T’Challa smiles fondly at her retreating back, but when he turns he is the King of Wakanda once more, as impassive and dangerous as the animal gracing the royal insignia. Bucky conveys his thanks for the hospitality and the vibranium arm in measured tones.

“It was the least I could do,” the King admits. “After everything I put you and your friends through in my misguided pursuit for revenge.”

“I would not argue with that.”

His mouth curls in amusement. “Such a motley crew the good Captain keeps. A loyal-to-a-fault pararescue with wings, a young girl with powers of manipulation far beyond anyone’s dreams, the international spy and assassin they call the Black Widow, and then you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been Team Cap since 1930,” mutters Bucky, a tad defensively.

“That’s good to hear. You know, at the airport, despite my wish to bring you to justice-”

“Kill me, you mean.”

“I would not argue with that," he repeats. The flash of a smile. “As I was saying, despite that, it was heartening to see Captain Rogers and his friends rallying to come to your aid. So strong was the cause that one of Stark’s own team members decided to turn her back on him.”

“She’s a spy, like you said,” Bucky points out, wondering where this is going. “That shouldn’t have come as a surprise.”

“You may be right. I must confess I’m inexperienced when it comes to the world of espionage but Miss Romanoff said something later that made me feel this was more than just a double agent act. She would help me find you, she said, but not catch you. And then she electrocuted me again.” T’Challa narrows his eyes. “I wonder what caused this change of heart.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“The Black Widow is on the run. The UN has no clue where she is.” The wording seems deliberate to Bucky. He scratches his beard. He has no idea why they’re debating the motives of a fucking stranger, and he’s about to say so when T’Challa changes the subject.

“I believe Captain Rogers and my sister informed you about the key to your triggers.”

“Yeah, the dream machine?” He snorts. “No, thank you.”

“Very well, Sergeant Barnes. If that is your final choice, I respect that. I shall ask the team to initiate your transition back into cryogenic sleep.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Your Highness,” he replies, anxious that his previous statement was too dismissive. “I am extremely grateful for all the efforts your team has taken. But I’m barely in control of my own mind, let alone my dreams. I’m not ready for what I’ll find there.”

T’Challa nods. “I understand.” He stands up to take his leave but pauses when an attendant enters the room with an air of great urgency.

“Your Highness.” He glances at Bucky and falls silent. T’Challa beckons him to go on. “Your Highness, the anthropologist from the UNESCO team, Professor Mendelsson, has been found dead in a bathroom. He seemed to have had a heart attack.”

The expression on the King’s face barely flickers.

“How unfortunate.”

.

.

_“Oh, Sergei? Don’t mind him, Daddy hired him to keep him safe. He’s just so protective of me.” And she turns around to place a warm hand on his arm. “Aren’t you, Sergei?”_

_That’s him. The strong, silent bodyguard. He nods curtly at the corrupt minister, who currently has his hand wrapped around her waist. She giggles._

_The Soldier tunes out as the older man makes a comment about him. She deflects it easily and suggests they go for a walk. It’s time. Usually, the Soldier takes a more discreet position- somewhere far up, perched like a bird of prey, sniper trained at the target, while_ she _works her magic downstairs- but this time, it’s required of him to follow them and provide backup._

_Not that she ever needs it._

_She fishes out the keys from the pocket of the now dead man and twirls them around her fingers. “That was disappointingly easy,” she remarks, dropping the high-pitched girl act._

_“Let’s go.” The Soldier doesn’t do banter._

_“In a minute.” She shakes out a cigarette from the minister’s monogrammed case and lights it up. He watches her straighten up against the wall, wrap her red lips around it, and take a drag. A sigh of pleasure rumbles from deep within her._

_“What are you doing?” Standing in the waning light, cigarette between her long fingers, hair a little out of place, she looks realer than she ever has the entire evening. The sight of it shouldn’t affect him this way._

_“I said,” she exhales slowly, “in a minute. It’s been too long.”_

_“Are you not allowed to smoke?”_

_“Personal pleasure does not exist in the Red Room.” She extends the cigarette towards him. “Go on.”_

_“I’m not allowed either.”_

_She winks. “I won’t tell.”_

_He hesitates, then accepts it. The first inhale burns his throat. He coughs. The second is smoother, more familiar. He opens his eyes to see that she’s moved much closer. Her eyes are twinkling, her blood-red lips barely conceal a smile._

_“There, didn’t that feel good?” Her voice is a caress in his ears. “You look so much more relaxed now, almost like a different man.”_

_Longing rises up inside him, warming his body, clearing the cobwebs in his mind. They’re partners, that’s all they are. But she’s looking at him like he’s something more, and for the first time in decades, he feels human._

_It’s utterly terrifying._

_“It’s time to go,” he says gruffly, moving away abruptly. He puts out the cigarette on his metal arm._

_He tells himself he imagined the expression of hurt on her face._ She’s a good actor, _he thinks as he starts walking away from her. He doesn’t look back._

.

.

When Bucky wakes up from his not-dream, he immediately staggers out of the room he'd dozed off in to look for Steve, to tell him _no_. No, he is not fucking going back on the ice. And _yes_ , he’s ready to do that dream-matrix thing or whatever.

She’s probably dead by now, Bucky thinks, as a smile like the sun breaks out on Steve’s face. Or wants nothing to do with him. But the identity of this mysterious figure from his past lies just below the surface; he just needs a little of bit of help digging it out.

He has a feeling he’s met her already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I delayed this chapter until I could watch Black Panther and IW and I'm so glad I did because I could use some of the Wakandan world-building in my writing. I'd based T'Challa on the one we saw in Civil War, consequently he's a lot more intimidating and aloof, as compared to the pure cinnamon roll we meet in Black Panther.
> 
> As for the dream-matrix-machine, in the Infinity War prelude comic, Shuri uses a consciousness matrix to "fix" Bucky, but I was more interested in him directly confronting his demons. This was also inspired by this [Inception AU gifset](http://supernutellastuff.tumblr.com/post/144613827637/post-civil-war-inception-au-sometimes-he-thinks) I made. It won't be the same as the dream sharing instrument in the movie, but it will be a handy plot device for Bucky and Natasha to uncover buried memories. Basically I love torturing my heroes ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Beach House's dreamy song Master of None.


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